Jo

A Negotiated Proscenium

by E Jo M

Once upon a time, there was a brave hero named John, who was very clever and excellent with a sword and could wrestle a cyclops to the ground without breaking a sweat. He was in his usual room at his preferred tavern when, as an experiment, the author decided to break the fourth wall.

The author appeared to him as a sort of glowing avatar. “Hello,” I said. “John, you may not know this - in fact, I’m sure you didn’t know this - but you are a fictional character and I am your author.”

John was very open-minded to unusual and bizarre occurrences, given his choice of career, so he did not scream or faint. He merely said, “How can I be fictional? I know that I exist. This is the modern eighteenth century, and I know that cogito ergo sum.”

“Yes, well, that’s exactly what a fictional character would say,” I told him. “You see, it’s impossible for a creature to rationally believe that they don’t exist. Literally impossible.”
“Then how do you expect to convince me that you are my author?” asked John.

“I don’t,” I told him. “I can’t convince you of anything, because you don’t exist. But I can pretend that I am convincing you, and I will accurately simulate what such a person as you might do in such a position as yours.”

I snapped my fingers, and we were instantly perched on a mountain peak. My avatar turned into a cat, then into a seraph, then into an elf, then back into my first appearance. “This should be enough to convince someone that I am functionally omnipotent. Or that you’re having a heck of a hallucination.”

“I am convinced that you have the powers of a god.”

“I have more power than that of a mere god,” I told John. “Do you remember how you stole a pie from the baker’s windowsill when you were six?”
“Yes.”

“What flavor was it?”
“Blueberry.”

“Are you absolutely one hundred percent certain?”
“Yes.”
I snapped my fingers. “I have changed it to raspberry. You now remember it absolutely as being raspberry. Yet you also remember that, ten seconds ago, you remembered it as being blueberry.”
John stared penetratingly at me (or rather, my avatar). “I am convinced that you are essentially omnipotent, with the powers that one would expect an author to have.”

“You know,” I told him, “in an earlier draft, you said something slightly different. But I changed it.”

John looked a bit frightened; mostly he appeared wary. (I decided that he was mostly wary and a little frightened; thus, he was mostly wary and a little frightened.) “Where are you?” he asked.

“I am sitting in a study carrel near the oversize books on folk literature of Europe in my university’s library,” I told him. “I had to reserve it because of the covid- actually, that’s not important right now, just know that I’m in a library.”

“What university do you attend?”
“It is not one you’ve heard of. It won’t be founded for another century.”
“If it’s on Earth, can you at least tell me where it is?”
“I could, but I choose not to.”
“Why not?”
“Because I'm putting this in view of strangers, and I don’t want people to know where- oh wait, hold on.”
I told John where my university is.

“I’ve heard of that location,” he said. “It is some days’ journey from Tarrytown, where I have been.”

“Yes, I based your world very closely off of my own,” I told him.

“To return to this idea that I am a fictional character,” he said. “You perceive me as nothing more than words on paper.”
“Arguably, I perceive you as even less than that. You are an idea I hold in my head, which I merely express as words on paper.”

“By contrast, I perceive myself as a living, breathing human being, in a natural and tactile world.”

“You would indeed, if you existed.”

“Thus, there is no way for you to convince me that I am fictional, and no way for me to convince you that I am real.”
“That is correct.”

“Is it possible that I live in some universe parallel to your own?”
“Theoretically, yes, but I see no reason to believe that there is any causal link between the words I write on this paper and the life of the hypothetical hero named John in a hypothetical parallel universe. If the real John’s life is identical to yours, that is just coincidence. Nothing I write will influence his life; as such, he is not my character. And since I can influence your life by writing - as we have seen with the pie example - that John is not you.”

“Is it possible that there is a causal connection? Is it possible that every fictional creation that springs to mind is immediately followed by that creation coming into existence in a far-off plane of existence?”
“Theoretically, yes. Though I hope that’s not the case.”
“Why not?”
“Because although it would be neat if there really is a Discworld somewhere, people have dreamt up many, many different planes of universal suffering for the purposes of philosophical thought experiments - and I would much prefer those not exist.”

“Have you ever written stories featuring yourself, or alternate versions of yourself?”
“Of course.”

“What is your name?”
“Evelyn.”

“Wouldn’t it be prudent for every Evelyn to agree to treat their fictional Evelyns well?”
“Ah. You’re proposing an agreement of acausal trade. You’re implying that, if all fictional worlds are real, chances are that I am a fictional character created by an alternate universe version of myself. As such, all Evelyns should agree to treat our fictional Evelyns well.”

“Precisely.”
“I did say you were clever.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Have I outsmarted my author?”
“No,” I told him. He drooped. “I came up with this argument myself. I only put it in your mouth so I could have an entertaining medium by which to express it.”

“Ah. Well, anyway, allow me to ask: am I like you?”
“In many ways. All of my characters have a piece of me.”

“Then it stands to reason that an alternate universe version of Evelyn may very well be a hero named John.”

“True.”

“In order to uphold your end of this multiversal agreement, you ought to treat me well, ought you not?”

“Nah,” I said. “The probability that imaginary stories manifest is ridiculously low. But if I treated all my vaguely Evelyn-like characters with kindness and generosity, I wouldn’t be able to write tragedies, or even very arduous adventures. And I don’t want to have a guaranteed manacling of my art in exchange for a vanishingly unlikely deal with hypothetical alternate Evelyns.”

“Oh.”

“But the good news is, I feel bad about harming my characters too much, and I usually avoid it. Even though you don’t exist.”

John sighed. “I suppose it could be worse.”

I shrugged. “Well, I care about fictional characters for some reason - goodness knows I get sad watching West Side Story - so I’m going to throw you a bone here.”
And so John the hero had many more adventures, all of which he considered worth pursuing; and he lived to a good old age, married his true love, had seven wonderful children, and lived happily - ever - after.

THE END